Frosting and Festivus
by jancat10
Summary: Elizabeth needed to tell her side of the story. Part Two of "Menorahs and Mistletoe."


_Elizabeth seemed to want to tell her side of the story, and writing it helped put me in the holiday spirit. So, here's the second part of "Menorahs & Mistletoe." _

**Frosting & Festivus**

The plastic Santa Claus stayed on the Bennet family roof all year long. Once Elizabeth's father had secured it there, sometime back in the early 1990s, he'd sworn he'd never again climb a ladder with more than three rungs. Santa's red suit had faded to a murky shade of pink, but he continued to glow. The lightbulb's 30-year warranty appeared to be a trustworthy one.

When she was a girl, Elizabeth wondered why her mother always yelled if her second-oldest daughter refused to use green frosting and preferred creating blue and yellow frosted star, reindeer and bell cookies. She liked a little blue, a dash of yellow or white, perhaps some red, and those crunchy little silver sugar balls, the kind that weren't sold anymore at the supermarket. Something about the toxic ingredients, she and Jane had surmised. Her mother had stocked up, though, with a lifetime supply which she feared Elizabeth would waste on her less than merry creations. The silver balls didn't taste all that good and she had a nagging fear that they might crack her teeth, but Elizabeth was just grateful to have relief from raisins, cinnamon candies and boring candy sprinkles. Anything to make the holiday less generic, more distinctive, more meaningful.

The family only went to church twice a year—on Easter and Advent Sunday—but all the decorative accoutrements of the holidays were stored in the attic. Her mother had embraced Christmas and created her own brand of distinctive, with the white plastic tree in the living room, ceramic or crocheted Santas atop every horizontal surface, and the radio playing Christmas carols beginning the day after Thanksgiving. The pine-scented candles, the bowls of candy canes, and the empty beribboned boxes wrapped in colorful foil paper and stacked on the stairs and tables added that extra "touch." Touched was right. Her mother was touched in the head, immersed in her love for commercial holiday themes.

When Elizabeth was six and her parents had found her watching the "Peanuts' Christmas special for the seventh time, memorizing the speech about the real meaning of Christmas, her father had laughed and insisted on calling her Linus for the rest of the month. Her stocking had included a Snoopy ornament that year rather than the snow globe she'd hoped for.

Every year was the same, even now that she was 23 and fending off her mother's offers to deck the halls in her daughter's new apartment.

Elizabeth sighed and looked at the cheery holiday revelers surrounding her. Charles' party was nothing like the ones her mother had hosted. There were no wienies in ketchup/chili sauce, no pickles with frilly toothpicks, no sputtering chocolate fountain. Everything was elegant and trendy, fun and culturally smart. Just like the people who crammed inside the apartment, comparing their phones and their skiing vacations and their investment portfolios.

Except for him—the tall, good-looking guy who seemed to prefer holding up the wall instead of mixing merrily. Maybe he knew something about the structural integrity of Charles' building and was doing a good Christmas deed. Or maybe he wasn't having much fun either, alone at an overly festive party on a beautifully starry night. _Maybe_, Elizabeth thought, _he's like me_. _He needs rescuing too_. He didn't look like he had much experience with Christmas revelry. Or egg nog. Or, she smirked, mistletoe.

She'd had enough of Mannheim Steamroller's electronic carols. She really wanted to get out this place, but if she was stuck, she might as well find some company that looked equally miserable. Besides, in the next room, there seemed to be a huge argument over ugly Christmas sweaters, and that looked entertaining. She grabbed an extra cup of punch and headed for the doorway.

"Excuse me," she said to Mr. Tall, Dark and Looming. "Can I squeeze by?"

An hour later, bundled up and wandering the glistening sidewalks, Elizabeth and her fellow refugee, William Darcy, had covered a gamut of subjects. They'd debated best and worst holiday songs. She liked "Oh! Holy Night." He volunteered that he hated Adam Sandler movies but really appreciated his Hanukkah Song. Elizabeth promptly broke into her favorite verse,

_"Paul Newman's half-Jewish, Goldie Hawn's half too. Put them together—What a fine looking Jew!_  
_"Put on your yalmulka, it's time for Hanukkah…"_

Will burst into laughter. "You know the lyrics? I thought you only celebrated—." He quieted and looked at her curiously.

She shrugged. "Even my mother liked that one." _But she also likes Adam Sandler movies, _Elizabeth thought, shuddering.

After they dissected their favorite holiday specials and discovered both loved old stop-action animation—especially "Rudolph"—they discussed the best gifts they'd ever gotten. At eight, she'd ripped off wrapping paper to find a much-longed-for pottery wheel. At nine, on the final night of Hanukkah, he'd been thrilled to get a baseball autographed by Sandy Koufax.

They'd discovered a mutual desire to attend a Festivus party and participate in the "Airing of Grievances." And what, she wondered aloud, would her wall-hugging friend need to whine about?

"I don't know," he said, frowning.

Elizabeth tilted her head and considered. "Okay. I'll show you mine if you show me yours?"

He gave her a small grin. It looked more like a grimace, she thought.

Taking a deep breath, she simply said, "People who forget what this is all about. It's not gifts, or huge discounts, or the perfect tree skirt, or the best cookies. Christmas is not about showcasing your inner Martha Stewart. It's a time of year to just realize what you love and who you love and recognize how lucky we are and be thankful for it."

He didn't say anything.

"And um," Elizabeth added quickly, "I would like to register a grievance against thematic foods, like sculpted butter lambs and fruitcake and mulled wine."

She felt like an idiot but when she looked up at Will, he was nodding, his eyebrows knitted in thought.

"As long as we're going for deep thoughts here," he said, "and you promise not to challenge me in the Festivus Day Feats of Strength, I guess I'd have to say I'm tired of thoughtlessness," he said. "The little things, like people who don't hold open the door for the person behind them. Or don't give up their seat for a pregnant woman or an old man. Or who say `No problem,' instead of `You're welcome.' I really, really hate that."

He cleared his throat and placed his hand on his heart. "And thus I air my grievances."

Will Darcy was, Elizabeth decided, a serious man with good manners and a hilariously wry sense of humor. She was more than pleased with him as her partner in party avoidance.

But being out in the cold, literally and figuratively, was getting uncomfortable. As they'd walked along, snow flurries flying and the cold settling in their bones, they'd discovered everything in Charles' neighborhood was shuttered, closing, or completely unappealing. A tapas restaurant had locked its doors for the night, a dark bar was packed with drunken office party refugees, and a small diner glowed with harsh fluorescent lighting and lonely pie eaters.

"This is not pie season," she said, gesturing toward them in mock indignance. "It's cookie season."

"Did you make Christmas cookies?"

"Yes. Three dozen snowballs. And frosted sleds, stars and snowflakes."

Elizabeth looked down at their hands. She'd caught his finger trying to wipe a snowflake from her nose about 45 minutes earlier, and he still hadn't let go. He'd held onto her hand as they kept walking, up one block and then another, until they'd circled back to Charles' building. The snow had started coming down more heavily, so they headed inside to the lobby.

Elizabeth's phone buzzed. _Oh. Jane. _She'd forgotten she'd come to this party with her sister.

"My sister will be wondering what happened to me. Do you want to go back up?" she asked him.

Will bit his lip and shook his head. "I didn't see any cookies there," he said. "You didn't bring any of yours?"

"Oh, mine aren't frou-frou enough for that crowd. Just old family recipes," she murmured. Glancing up, she saw he looked disappointed.

"How about your culinary skills?" Elizabeth teased. "Your mother passing on her kitchen secrets, or is she saving them for the future mother of her grandchildren?"

She didn't expect him to wince. Or his hand to tense.

"Um, no. I have her recipe box and her cookbooks," he said quietly.

_Oh god_. Elizabeth closed her eyes. _Well, aren't I the holiday cheer champ_. She squeezed his hand, waiting.

"She baked a lot when I was little. But she'd only let me have the chocolate macaroons if I ate her Tu b'Shevat bars." He glanced at the woman standing beside him. "That's, um, fruit bars to celebrate the New Year for Trees. She liked nature."

"Yummy," Elizabeth said, her eyes glowing but her insides roiling. _Cripes. I insulted thematic foods._"You have her recipe?"

He nodded.

"Have you ever made them?"

He shook his head.

"Not a baker, huh. Can you boil water?"

Her heart swelled when he smiled.

"I cook a mean grilled cheese," Will replied. "And steamed vegetables and rice. And soup from a can like you can't imagine."

He met her eyes. Like his, they were sparkling, reflected in the twinkly lights strung around the marble lobby. Elizabeth let go of his hand and pulled off her gloves. She felt him watching her and when she glanced up, he looked disappointed. She shrugged. "Your fingers aren't cold?"

Will nodded and tugged off his gloves. Elizabeth reached out and took his hands. She examined them carefully, and traced his palms with her fingers.

"These are not the hands of a seasoned cook." She looked up. "Need some lessons?"

Will let out the breath he'd been holding. "Yes. Absolutely. Lots of them."

He lifted her hand to his lips.

Elizabeth gently drew her hand away. She traced his lips and cheekbone with her thumb, and slid her fingers into the curls behind his ears. She looked up at him, and laughed. "Uh-oh."

Will stiffened. "What is it?"

"Caught under the mistletoe. Again."

He glanced up at the green sprig dangling from the lobby chandelier, and bent down and pulled her closer.

"Oh, I did it on purpose this time," he said softly.

"I'll show you how to make a gingerbread house," she murmured. "You hold up the walls, and I'll frost the roof."

"We'll light the candles every night, and deck the halls," he whispered, just before his lips met hers.


End file.
